"That's because the popcorn's so much smaller," he protested. He had the needle and thread and was stringing the popcorn on. "We should time how long we get in a half hour and then switch, and see who comes out ahead."
"You're just jealous because mine's bigger than yours,” I said archly.
He snorted. "Trust me, Luna, that is not a phrase most people say to me."
My mind went to dirty, dirty places.
MY MIND REMAINED IN DIRTY places for the next day, and I couldn't take my eyes off of Owen. Why had I hated the man? He was competitive, just like me. I understood that.
He was also flat-out gorgeous. Everything about him drove me wild with lust, from the way the corners of his eyes crinkled a little when he smiled, to the liquid gold color they seemed to be when he was concentrating, to the way his big hands moved when he cooked. I always made him cook, and it was mostly so I could watch him.
When he showered, I tried not to think about him soaping up his big body with those big hands...which meant, of course, I could think of nothing but that. When he went to sleep, I pictured him in bed, limbs twined in the sheets. Did he sleep naked? I pictured that, too, and found myself flustered and needing that cold shower before I slept.
I'd gone from despising the guy to having an amicable rivalry with him...to lusting after him. I was pretty sure the lust was purely one-sided, though, so I kept my dirty thoughts to myself.
Kitty showed up the next day with more groceries and a new bag of stuff for us. She looked pleased at the sight of our tree, and we spent the rest of the day making more garlands and festooning the lodge with them. The rivalry remained with Owen, but now there was a weird sort of tension behind it, and every time his fingers brushed mine, or his body brushed up against my own, I'd tense like a skittish cat.
Which was silly. Owen wasn't acting any different. It was me being the tool.
The next day, I worked on my script for part of the morning while Owen made more cookies for the crew. They'd asked for seconds of his - and told me to stay out of the kitchen. Owen had laughed his head off at that request, and I'd mock-scowled, though I thought it was kind of funny, too. We worked companionably. When I'd get stuck (as I often did), I'd call out a question to Owen, and chatting with him always jarred the stuck part of my story loose. It was great.
That afternoon, we chopped wood since we were low. Even though we'd made it a contest, Owen chopped three times as much as me. I protested that it was because he was a guy. Owen said I couldn't use his gender against him. We'd called it a truce and headed in for showers, and I changed into comfortable pajamas to sit in front of the fire. Owen had promised me s'mores, damn it, and I was going to collect tonight. I wore a pair of leggings and an off-the-shoulder oversized t-shirt, since it mixed comfy with ‘just a little sexy’ since my bra-straps showed.
When I arrived downstairs, the fire was already going. Big pillows to sit on and a lap-tray with chocolate, graham-crackers, marshmallows, and skewers sat in front of the pillows. I picked a seat and sat down, looking around for Owen. I didn't see him anywhere. "You coming?" I called out.
"Yep," he said, emerging from the mud room and shutting the door behind him. "Sorry. Was working on something."
I frowned over at him. "Working on what?"
"Nothing important, Boston." He rubbed his hand on his shirt. Owen wore his typical cupcake shirt. Strange how such a big guy could make something as silly as a cupcake shirt rather masculine.
"Uh huh," I said. "Well, wash your hands and let's have some s'mores, shall we?"
"Sure." He seemed unusually tense tonight. Edgy, almost. I watched him as he washed up, frowning to myself. When he sat down next to me, he wouldn't look me in the eye.
"What's bothering you?" I asked him.
He looked over at me for a long moment, and said nothing. It looked as if he was considering saying something, then, shook his head. "Nothing."
"Riiight." I gave him a skeptical look.
He rubbed at his thick, dark hair. "Can you help me with something?"
"What is it?"
"It's in the mud room," he told me, and again, he wouldn't look me in the eye.
“But you just came out of there.”
“I know. But I need help with something.”
"Are you getting weird on me, Cupcake?" I asked him.
He snorted his answer.
I got to my feet and, curious, I headed to the mud room. The door was shut and I pushed it open, stepped down into the cold little room that we kept our boots and jackets in, and looked around. "Should I put my boots on?"
"Nope, you're fine." He moved forward and steered me a little toward the center of the room.
"Fine for what?"
"Fine for this," he said, and pointed above me.
I looked up and saw....mistletoe hanging from the ceiling.
My face turned bright red. "Owen, I--"
He leaned down and kissed me.
I was so surprised that my mouth was hanging open a little when his descended. I felt his tongue flick against my open mouth, then just as quickly pull away again. And then Owen was looking at me like there was something wrong with the scenario. Like it hadn't gone the way he'd pictured it in his mind and he was disappointed.
"What?" I said, the single word sounding more brusque than I intended.
Owen sighed. "I...nothing. Sorry. Let's just go eat, okay?"